


Twain

by mabulatious



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabulatious/pseuds/mabulatious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One question unasked and answered. Second question asked and unanswered. Heavy implication of IchiRuki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can tell I have been reading Shakespeare lately. Also, I tried my hands at alliteration. If this makes no sense, I fail as a writer.

  1. Where does strength come from?



Lifting his tangerine head, bronze orbs revealed through the thick flash of fluttering eyelashes, black sword’s hilt in right hand and the other hand limp as bright-red blood flowed out of a curdling wound at the head of his left arm. Floating in mid-air from the pressure of a blow to his chest, the air hissing out of his mouth, his lungs crushed medially, the clear sky looked back at him to say unavoidable, everyday, cordial greetings. As if the world wasn’t ending.

As if— if the darkness shrouded his vision and the weight pressed him down to the ground— _if_ he gave up, the entirety of soulfulness _would not_ end in a bleak future.

“ICHIGO!” that was _her_ , calling him.

His consciousness wakened and paused to deliberate, which was rare for him but inevitable. When it came to Rukia, his mind was able to discard every pre-conceived reflex— like, at the moment, his avoidance of thinking and going with his gut feeling only— to the back-burner like it didn’t even exist. There was something familiar yet refreshing to the way she was calling him. Her voice wasn’t terrified of circumstances, of catastrophe and pain and suffering, well it probably was but like hell, she would show that to Ichigo. It had fear, no doubt about it, but her voice was steadfast nonethless. It had the compelling edge of warning and anticipation, of knowing and— and not knowing but believing anyway. What was more fascinating, more unbelievable than that: it was able to awaken him so suddenly, his head spun at the quickness.

The voice called him out in a tone that was convincing him of his strength that had been beaten back so easily and telling him to stand tall, fight back because he wasn’t going down that easily and she was right, of course but what was surprising in all this garble of abstraction and interpretation was that he _listened_ to her.

Now that he thought about it, he always listened to her when she used that voice or god knew what her kick would end up targeting on his body— if he was lucky, it would be his liver. It was perhaps the jolt his body gave or the way his blood pumped faster and harder and stronger and he felt heavy with riatsu just by the sound of her stalwart voice prickling his ears.

He straightened, stood taller, smirked as his head lowered and his eyes slanted a look down at where her riatsu resided.

There she was, looking up at him with worried furrows betwixt her brows she hadn’t thought to hide yet but as she sensed his eyes on her, she smiled easily, her muscles relaxing, her parted mouth drawing down into a line of seeming serenity yet actual severity. She noticed the enemy making use of her distraction and brought up her sword, mounting against her own foe once again. She didn’t look back at him, her face a blanket of conviction and dirt-stained cheeks, eyebrows a fierce underline as the clash brought about strain, push-against-push, sparks spouting off where two sharp shards of metal met.

“Where are you looking, savior of Soul Society?” asked his own foe. Ichigo faced his opponent, emulating the death god waiting for him to win and tightened his grip on the black hilt.

Unknown to his enemy, who was the only one facing him now, the answer of an unasked question was answered in the obscurity of resolute, narrowed chestnut eyes well-hidden by the overrun darkness of a coming-forth cloudy sky.

“Hyaa!” he roared as he flew out, tip of black and white sword brandished forward.

Strength comes from— from her vibrancy, her heart in his hands, her indigo-blue eyes, her firm yet caring voice, her moon-streaked soul.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

> 2\. "Why could Rukia see through me so easily?"

A small laugh startled out of her. Ichigo glanced at her warily, jerking ever-so slightly to defensively fold his arms across his chest before recovering his composed stance, which consisted mainly of him walking on beside her with arms at his side and hands bunched inside the pockets of his pants.

“What? I just wondered how you can tell, since you know…” He scratched the nape of his neck, looking anywhere but her. “You weren’t even facing me at the time.”

She smiled side-ways at him, and replied flippantly: “Thing is, Ichigo, you’re a  _huge_ softie underneath all the hustle and bustle of scowling and more scowling.” She gestured the ‘huge’ with her hands to explain the gravity of his softness. His eyebrow ticked in irritation and she giggled to hide the thoughts behind her head, could tell it would only take a few more hits in the right place for him to explode. So, she continued her insults on his manly pride, instead of giving the real answer to his question.

“The amount of times I have personally been borne witness to your bad acting bursting in flames to reveal your warm, fuzzy side counts for such an astonishing number that it’s getting a bit ridiculous.” She said with an exaggerated sigh.

She didn’t mention that there was no need for the pretense of the ever-persisting and the regularly cool yet tottering blend of boy and man that Kurosaki was, since Ichigo continued to try for the sake of a dignity that shouldn’t even be considered as he had that in spades when he was not fluffing it up for the audience. The details weren’t needed when her words had already done the work they were meant to. Next she knew, Ichigo’s perpetual scowl darkened and enraged, he shouted the words: “I AM NOT A SOFTIE, DAMMIT!” Then, he went on to wave his fist maddeningly at her, yelling obscenities at her, giving justifications for his compassionate moments and she smiled secretively at ruffling his feathers so. In the middle of his angry tirade, she turned and ran off, laughing at the sour look on his face.

It was recently that Rukia noticed a most dear encounter: the scowl had softened a bit and the smiles were more frequent and less raw. The grins she won out of Ichigo after the two months they had lived in the same roof and fought hollows together— well, Ichigo fought and she led him around like a serf to do her bidding whenever the orders came— had been dangerously edgy and undeniably irresistible and the change of features on his tan face showed in a subtle, smooth manner.

He had been a rough, jagged rock when she had found him and he had refined in all matters chosen— not by her because god forbid, Ichigo ever let anyone else choose his way of living or in his case, fighting— except for the teensy tiny matter of his sensitive and deliberately concealed heart that Rukia was aware of in the way that a deer is aware of headlights on a car heading straight for it or the cacophony of thousands of notes being played in dissonance at the same time.

She didn’t intend to analyze his every move and name the feelings on his uncertainty, doubt, frustration or sadness but there was no way to actually  _not_  search his eyes for the answer. And here’s the funny part of the matter, the absolute stupidity of the whole eye-gazing-into-the-soul debacle: Ichigo let her.

He let her read the tensing of his jaw, the tightening of his shoulders, the swallow of his spit, the grasp of fists at his side, the averting of his eye and the haunts shrouding his skin. When the storm of turmoil brew and subsisted beneath the bowl of calm and sober tawny eyes, instead of turning his head away, he would let her  _see_  the shame and guilt that bequeathed him.

His demons and her honor.

It was  _so stupid_.

Because she tried,  _really_ tried to not fall for a brat younger than her by hundreds of years and not to mention her undead status or the fact that no shinigami or soul could stay in the Living World for a long time unless they had duty to do and she personally didn’t feel inclined to pursue a career of killing low-grade Hollows in Karakura town alongside Mr. My-Riatsu-Comes-Out-Of-Nowhere. It was an understood agreement between them. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t even have to look each other in the eye to read what was in both of their hearts.

Life was going on and on and their time would come but not now. Presently, they were tarrying and tallying up the days that went by, each as it brought them closer to dawn with the ache spreading vaster than wills.

Of course, that all depended on their survival. It was never a sure thing and the pain that sliced through her— every time she thought herself closer at death’s door or him suffering from a particularly impeding strike that could not heal or his riatsu weakening to the point of vanishing— she feared for the future that was so slow at turning for a god of death who was used to fifty years passing by in a flash. It was a fault she could not put on Ichigo but ever she dared.

Foolish boy, that man in her heart.

And so the answer— the real answer— she doesn’t give to Ichigo when he asked her, only in passing and during one of their after-battle moments, was this:

“When you meet someone you are bound to as fate tells it, the instinct to guard and reserve the heart automatically destroys itself. Maybe, you didn’t notice it and it happened. Truthfully though, you probably did and you probably won’t ever let it come to light unless the forbidden and impossible block is displaced. How do I know?

Because your soul yearns for my understanding and reveres in my knowing.”

So, they didn’t talk about it. It was his decision because he was not prepared for it, but it was her weakness because she was not prepared to uphold the responsibility of a life that wasn’t hers.

Perhaps, someday.


End file.
